


Dispatches from the Front

by prestissimo



Series: mortal!bloodslaveAU [1]
Category: Vampire Chronicles - Anne Rice
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Alternate Universe - Apocalypse, Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Amputation, Body Horror, Conditioning, Dissociation, Drabble, Dresden - Freeform, Dubious Consent, Elbe Sandstone Mountains, Epistolary, F/M, Feral Behavior, Gen, Gore, Horror, Implied Child Death, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Brainwashing, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Massacre, Nicolas de Moment Musical, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Psychological Horror, Psychological Torture, Sex, Sexual Content, Torture, Vignettes, War, War Crimes, Wartime, mortal!bloodslaveAU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-18
Updated: 2017-02-18
Packaged: 2018-09-25 06:52:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 9,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9808109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prestissimo/pseuds/prestissimo
Summary: Being an account of the events of the Great War that led to the Decimation of humanity and the Ascension of Imperial Prince Lestat.mortal!bloodslaveAU world building drabbles. Originally posted on Tumblr. (Link in Notes)





	1. Nicolas: Dresden, Outskirts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Lillian is late retrieving her asset from the Fall of Dresden, Nicolas de Lenfent has time to regain consciousness.

##   

Image [Originally posted by golemnight](https://tmblr.co/Zie8yr1ey0WCs)

 

The quiet darkness of a forest is a perfect nursery for the newborn and innocent. The damp, heavy earth muffles stumbling feet, cradles weary heads, and hides the delicate seeds of survival. But the mountains torn between Saxony and old Bohemia hold neither quiet forests nor innocent darkness.

Deep, long gouges of off-road vehicles and solar-powered hover car burns outline the edges of the sandstone mesas like topography lines. The metallic foil of thousands of MREs twist and tumble lazily over the barren earth. Collapsed tents sit like empty chrysalis on empty slopes plucked clean of plant and animal and even worm. The humans have sifted through all that the land has to offer. They have given back all they had in turn.

When Dresden burned, the humans who paid dearly for advance warning had fled to the familiar mountains around the city. They had brought with them their solar panels and their water purifiers and their Meals, Ready-to-Eat. “Meals Rejected by the Enemy” is no longer an amusing subversion. It now describes the dearly discarded dead.

The Dresden refugees watched as their homes billowed into the sky and caressed their lungs with smoky fingers one last time. When the local farms burned and the asphalt melted, the refugees sent out foraging parties. They had already hunted and trapped every bird, squirrel, and hoofed creature in those woods. (They had eaten the wolves the very first month.) The last of the foraging parties could pluck only worm and insect and weed from the ruined ground, and a merry stew it made for those days of empty bellies and full eyes.

A week ago, the camp began to trade the dead for dinner.

A few days later, Dresden finally fell, and tonight we hover over the quiet sanctity of the Killing Forest, where a creature awakens. It had a long and arduous crawl out of the baked wasteland north of the forest. Dresden’s children are strewn about the path like puzzle pieces too broken to be placed back in the box. Their murderer, if such indiscriminate and efficient predation could be imbued with intent, abandoned the pointless task of untangling guts from garters, so to speak. To its displeasure, it has discovered that organ meat clings to vampire skin in the most unpleasant of ways. (This inconvenience is the only recompense the citizens of Dresden shall enjoy.)

Its whimpers echo the hollow of a trunk, where the dark wet mud buries it in a sluicing, bloody embrace. Its features are obscured by mud and dirt, and its hair is a snarled mass of unnameable horrors. It spends the span of a lover’s embrace coming to the realization that its confusion will not be rewarded with pain. Abortive grunts, drowned by the mud, accompany the furtive creaks of wet wood as it shoves itself, squirming and naked and sluggish, out of the trunk of the tree. 

The wet, liquid sound of its landing shocks it into awareness. They’ll be coming for him. The blood-drenched bog of corpses around him means there is too much blood in him already to induce a frenzy. Why they hadn’t already decided on a rendez-vous or a capture will be of no concern so long as he _hides_. 

Not here. Too close to the city here. Don’t think about the city. Don’t think about the people. Don’t think about their eyes or their hands. Don’t think about the way they made you feel, the way it still aches inside. That was them— _she said so Lillian said so—_ and this is you, here, whole, while an entire city drowns for their sins. _Armand knows best_. _That was them, they did it, not Master, not Lillian, the humans, the humans!_

The distant roar of the helicopter jerks him around in a panic. Before he even recalls why he fears, his muscles are pumping and he’s blasting through the forest, deeper and deeper, past stenches and guignols best unimagined. Sun torpedoes blast through the air above his head and he squeals in agony. It works like a net and downs him against the ancient roots of something as old as he is. _Save me, brother._

“NO! Please NO!” He cringes against the wet, warm earth as his flesh bakes it into bricks of blood and soil. Each grind of dry dust is agony on his peeling meat, and still he scrapes and grinds his biting way across the dirt. He cannot spare the breath to scream. He cannot spare the thought to weep. He cannot even crawl.

All he is is suffering.

“ _Mon amour_.” The beginning of the trigger phrase. His burned-out nerves begin to twitch in answer. If she completes the phrase, his body would crawl out of its skin to reach her. Never mind some burned flesh.

The shining blade of her axe arcs in her hands. She smiles.

“NO! _PLEASE_! Please don’t make me—”

“ _Venez ici.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted on http://echo-de-la-lumiere.tumblr.com/post/156301246520/dispatches-from-the-front-dresden-outskirts.


	2. Nicolas: Unknown Location

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nicolas de Lenfent is a ward of Armand, Prelate and chief military strategist for the vampires. He receives a visitor. The first mention of shock collars. [a mortal!bloodslaveAU drabble]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted at http://echo-de-la-lumiere.tumblr.com/post/152323511220/mikamemoriesbank-from-rimini-today-new.

Today was a good day to have visitors. I know it was a good day because Armand said so. Armand is very wise. Armand said to me, _Nicolas, today is a good day for you to have visitors._ That is how I knew it was a good day.

Armand told me to sit and said, _Nicolas, you have a special visitor._ The man called himself François Billaroux. I listened to him while he made sounds with his mouth. It was very confusing. Armand only talks in my head, so that I can hear him properly. He said, _Nicolas, you are being rude. He is here to give you an award._

The man wore a passably-tailored suit. Dead grey sheep. His shirt was full of the bones of herring, white and bleached and brittle. His shoes reminded me of Spanish cows, back when they still had cows. The man wore no tie! !! !

Armand says I am not allowed to wear a tie yet, but soon. He says if I am very good, I shall wear a tie of gold one day, and I shall wear it all the time. Armand says I will help him make the tie I wear perfect, until I deserve the one made of gold. I do not feel right without a tie. I want to be worthy of the golden tie. 

Armand said, _Nicolas, pull the corners of your lip outwards and bow._ So I did, and the man made a noise with his mouth again. Then he gave me a book. It had pictures in it and it looked familiar, though I had never seen it before. He said it was a ‘commemorative edition’ of the _prémiere_. He said Armand had sent them music, and they had judged it and performed it and now they all wanted to meet the man who had written it. ~~I was…I felt…~~ I shall tell you a secret: I was so _scared_. I almost wanted to ask Armand to send the unfamiliar visitor away. 

But Armand soothes me. He takes care of me. He does not permit anyone else to harm me. Armand is generous and patient and calm. He said, so clear into my head, what noises I had to make with my mouth. If I was good, I might have more visitors. So I said ‘merci’ to Monsieur Billaroux, who said I had “prodigious talent” for such a young man. I wanted to tell him I was very old, but Armand shook his head so I hugged the books and smiled and waited for the man to finish making sounds.

Armand always knows what I am thinking. Sometimes in the quiet of the dawn I whisper very softly in my head, ‘Armand is not nice.’ If Armand knew I did this he would be so disappointed, because he does so much for me. He lets me stay in his nice house and he keeps me safe when I get confused and he holds me if the noises are too loud. ~~But he is not nice.~~

Sometimes he lets me see Daniel. Daniel is nice. Daniel visits Armand _a lot_. I like Daniel. Daniel says what he wants and he even argues with Armand. _I’m_ not allowed to argue with Armand. Once they were arguing and I heard Daniel sound so angry but when Armand said, _Nicolas, come here_ , in my head, Daniel had a sad smile on his face but he sounded angry. I don’t know what it means.

Sometimes Daniel doesn’t sound like what he says. Daniel calls Armand ‘boss’ when he means 'I love you’. He always looks a little sad but kind. He tells me to 'hang on’ and that I’m a 'champ’ but I don’t know what these words mean. But I like him because he is gentle and patient. And he makes me laugh. Armand is patient but he is not gentle. Armand sometimes makes me laugh. ~~It is not the same laugh.~~

But Armand takes care of me so well. And he let me wear my pyjamas to meet the man and accept the award because, he said, _it is an improvement on yesterday_. I do not remember yesterday. 

Today, I was so polite and well-behaved for the visitor that Armand let me play the piano for an extra half-hour. I was too excited, he said, for the violin. ~~The piano was safer, he said, but when I played something for him he started to cry. He said it wasn’t my fault. I felt so sorry. And then he kissed me and hugged me and touched me until I felt odd and tight and full of things I don’t want to think about.~~

I think I am tired now. I don’t want to write any more.

Armand says we are going to try on ties tomorrow.

 

N. de Lenfent


	3. The Forgiving Tree

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is a quiet village not far enough from Málaga to be impossible to find, but not close enough to San Pedro de Alcántara to invite any accidental visitors. Up on a hill where a single jacaranda tree grows, a woman watches as a vaguely humanoid shape emerges from the slow and steady flow of blood out of the city.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted at http://echo-de-la-lumiere.tumblr.com/post/149574968290/the-forgiving-tree-mortalbloodslaveau-drabble.

There is a quiet village not far enough from Málaga to be impossible to find, but not close enough to San Pedro de Alcántara to invite any accidental visitors.

A pretty little lane winds past the small post office with every odd window broken. Inside a charming little brasserie, a hand-lettered sign cheekily announces that only vegetarians are welcome at the establishment. Thousands of little red crosses are plastered over the walls and windows and doors of the twenty buildings that face the pretty little lane, creating a forest of red around a crimson river leading from distant Málaga’s intermittent electric lights.

Up on a hill where a single jacaranda tree grows, a woman watches as a vaguely humanoid shape emerges from the slow and steady flow of blood out of the city. It lurches and cradles itself carefully in turns, but when it drops something to the ankle-deep sludge flowing from Málaga of the dying, the dead, and those who wish they are dead, it pays no mind. It only has eyes for the woman on the hill, and its footprints are bloody as they climb.

It is spring. The fruit of the jacaranda tree twists and turns in the gentle breeze. Someone was having a birthday party, and what looks like pink streamers hang in the branches. There is a festive air to their sway.

Someone patient spent a long time working on this tree.

Beneath the purple of the lush flowers above, it resolves itself into a naked man who has buried himself directly into every level of nakedness the mind can sustain. Though he does not need to breathe, his chest heaves with his panting. Past the wildness in his eyes, the woman can see the fear and the anger and the pain, and she speaks before he can begin to panic.

“ _Venez à moi, mon amour_ ,” she says, triggering the fruit of years of careful, _exquisite_  time spent together. Even if only one of them had been capable of counting.

The bark of the tree snarls into her flesh as her lover rushes her, kissing with blunt teeth the heave of her chest and the cords of her neck. It always hurts, the first time, but he’ll calm down and she’ll make him see he is forgiven. She can feel the dig of hard cock against her leg and his growl in her ear and suddenly, she’s furious. Perhaps she has been conditioned, too.

Her hand clamps around his throat and takes him down _hard_  against the roots of the tree. His eyes bulge and she grins, full of tooth and fang, and presses down harder. He starts to choke and kick, his mouth opening and closing like a gulping fish. He has too much blood to die of this, but at least she won’t have to hear his stupid animal grunts. She prefers the other side of him, the idealistic fool, the eloquent abolitionist, but that man is her enemy. This creature bucking beneath her is her charge and her lover, and they both have their orders.

She grunts as he kicks her backwards against the tree, causing a moist sound as the branches shake and shudder. Two well-fed vampire lovers can do quite a lot of damage when they fight. Her clothes are folded in a waterproof box, along with a towel and some water. The manacles and straitjacket of Elderhair are already on the ground, waiting to welcome struggling arms and tender ankles back into their care. But first, she must perform her task.

When he thrusts into her, she bellows in outrage, but the blood that covers him eases his entry slightly. His eyes are wild with bloodlust and she knows her face is not what he sees as he withdraws and ploughs deep into her again. It makes her hurt deep inside for many nights after and she relishes kicking him in the face as he tongues his way up her boots in apology. Once, he was so gentle she beat him half to death, and now they both hurt all the time. It is romantic.

They fall into a rhythm, but the bloodglut of an entire city is working within him, driving his movements faster than even she can endure. The aggressive chaos within had launched out of its cage once Armand had signed the order. She nudges aside what might be an esophagus, or perhaps a spinal cord of some kind draped about him, and grasps his shoulders. 

Her fangs are sharp and he shouts loudly in pain into her mouth, and it’s she who is drilling into him now as she drinks the dying and dead of Málaga’s citizens, mortal and immortal, from his mouth. She takes his frenzy and she takes his fear and even though he is landing claw after claw against the side of her bleeding head, she digs even deeper and his Blood is flowing out of her mouth, too fast for her to swallow. The sweet smell of the jacaranda tree drifts down and gradually masks the scent of smoke and ash her petit weapon of mass destruction brought with him. He always did that. They had no need to teach him. One less month under Armand’s knife.

Gradually his legs weaken and her side no longer hurts and she shoves him down into the dirt with a heady gasp of lust. She traps him between her legs and quickly winds the piano wire around his wrists. Before he can stop her, she tugs the line shut to his howl of panic. They are momentarily still before toppling to the dirt, but not before landing on his face and making him shudder. She holds him in place as he bucks and yelps, but he’s still hard despite—or because of—the pain and she clenches around him with glee as he weeps inconsolably. 

He tries to snap at her even as his own hips thrust upwards to meet hers, and his confused sobbing gives a sweet tinge to the hellish landscape. Their eyes lock and they work each other furiously, reminded of their first passionate meeting. Without meaning to, she bites her lip in distress at how much pleasure everything is and he pauses, concerned, the pain in his wrists returning. It’s how she yanks the jacket towards her and shoves his butchered arms through the sleeves. Her knots are secure and tidy, and she punches him in the face to stop his screaming.

“My hands,” he repeats, and she punches him again in the chest. She doesn’t want him to soften, and she does it again, and again, though he cannot defend himself. 

“Here are your hands, _mon amour_ ,” she says to him gently, and he watches, transfixed, as she carefully threads piano wire through his pale and nimble hands. He pulses gently inside her, and she squeezes a grunt of unbelievable arousal from him. Good boy. She flings them into the air like setting loose a pair of doves. A branch snatches the wire between them and one spins around and around, until they are just another one of the many human hands hanging from the jacaranda tree. Long arm nerves and arteries flap in the soft spring evening. Her beloved hometown is dead and she helped murder it.

“If you want to try your own luck, go ahead and look for them. Or you’ll let me ride you.”

“You’re a monster!” Hoarse, rasping voice. She tilts her head to admire the blue flowers that are beginning to cascade from where they circle his neck.

“Look in the mirror, darling,” she says, and leans backwards as she begins to lift her hips, making him choke at the tight sensations.

“You witch,” he grunted, furious and lustful and letting his own hips buck upwards of their own volition, chasing after a violent death. He knows he’ll be in chains later, poked and prodded by Armand and sent under, and he uses his anger however he can.

“Love you too,” she retorts, and begins to choke him again, making him harden further. She had tried bringing him back in the normal way, the way she did all her agents. But Nicolas acted so feral that, well, they both prefer it this way. Being fucked back into compliance is preferable to explaining to Armand why Sorrento had been rapidly depopulated over the course of a week.

“Make me come,” he hisses, and she flips them both and helps the madman take her beneath the shade of her jacaranda tree. He pistons into her, drawing small gulps from her throat as she finally begins to feel her desire rise. It is embarrassing for a handler to be in love with her asset.

“Lillian,” he says, before sinking his fangs into her neck as he empties himself inside her. She can feel him, molten and fluid inside her, and she groans into the night air at the feeling of forgiveness.

“ _Mon amour_ ,” she answers, giving over to her own pleasure as they rock together in the bleeding earth. 

 

Her name isn’t Lillian.


	4. Scratched Recordings from Daniel Molloy’s Audiotapes: Ireland

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Transcript. United Nations Observer Michael York, Ireland.  
> [mortal!bloodslaveAU drabble]

[ ](http://requiem-on-water.tumblr.com/)

_(Image source:[weheartit.com](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=http%3A%2F%2Fweheartit.com%2Fentry%2F30010855%2Fin-set%2F15340093-gothic%3Fcontext_user%3DDustyrider%26page%3D4&t=NTUzYTIwYjA2ZTczZmU1OTM5OWUyNzVlYzJjMGVhNzUxZjViZGZhZCwxNTY4Mjg5OTg4NDQ%3D&b=t%3Alt8cWpnJF8v6Go8F5fmedQ&p=http%3A%2F%2Ftheamazingdrunk.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F156828998844%2Fscratched-recordings-from-daniel-molloys&m=1), via [requiem-on-water](http://requiem-on-water.tumblr.com/post/154728835177))_

 

 **Daniel:** [ _audio static_ ] —y final entry. [ _wind buffeting_ ] Sorry, I had to get to a more isolated place. I—

 **Callum:** MICHAEL! GET AWAY FROM THERE YOU SILLY BASTARD!

 **Daniel:** [ _sound of wind muffles, interrupted by the silken zipping sound of pocket lining]_ WHAT?

 **Callum:** [ _puffing with exertion_ ] Oh. I thought you were going to jump. You gave me quite a scare.

 **Daniel:** [ _shocked sound_ ] Callum! You know me better than that.

 **Callum:** Well, there has been an epidemic since the latest leak of the Prelate’s drafts.

 **Daniel:** [ _mutters_ ] I can’t believe he’s calling himself that.

 **Callum:** Tyrants call themselves what they like.

 **Daniel:** He’s not a—[ _sighs_ ] It isn’t that simple. People don’t turn out like that unless something wrong happened to them first, okay? And I’m not gonna kill myself.

 **Callum:** If that’s what you say, I’ll hold you to it. Come on, now.

 **Daniel:** Where are we going?

 **Callum:** We are going to final legal burial in all of Ireland. Sean O'Mulriain. At least he had the sense to store some blood in his refrigerator first, so his wife can use it for barter.

 **Daniel:** Jesus Jimminy, Callum! Don’t talk about Sean like that!

 **Callum:** What! We all did, in the Cold Times! What are _you_ doing, putting on airs ‘round blood currency! You Americans were the ones who thought of it in the first place!

 **Daniel:** Let go! Callum!

 **Callum:** And now you’re going to join the rest of us and when it’s your turn you’re going to say some words like the decent man I thought you were.

 **Daniel:** I’m not going to that funeral, Callum. I _can’t_. So please let go of me.

 **Callum:** What? What are you on about? Look, it’s not far, you can see them, those torches.

 **Daniel:** I am not going. [ _sound of pain_ ] I haven’t attended a funeral since the Eighties. [I got my fill, then.](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fen.wikipedia.org%2Fwiki%2FHIV%2FAIDS_in_the_United_States&t=MWQ4M2YxNTAxNjc2YTI3OTIyOGVmOTQ3MzVlN2Q4NmEzZDM1MjczMyxEWVh0Vzhsdw%3D%3D&b=t%3Alt8cWpnJF8v6Go8F5fmedQ&p=http%3A%2F%2Ftheamazingdrunk.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F156828998844%2Fscratched-recordings-from-daniel-molloys&m=1)

 **Callum:** I don’t understand.

 **Daniel:** So will ya just—

 **Callum:** You’d have to be at least _sixty_ —

 **Daniel:** That doesn’t matter—

 **Callum:** Don’t be a wanker.

 **Daniel:** I don’t want to ask you again.

 **Callum:** Young man, the man in that box was one of the finest humans I’ve ever known. If you respect me at all, you’d—

 **Daniel:** Oh don’t give me that—

 **Callum:** His is the final burial in all of Ireland, Michael! Do you know what that means, you _infant_? It means Merrion Street thinks Queen Madhurani’s forces are going to fall. By the time the leeches finish kicking her out of Buckingham Palace, there won’t be enough earth to turn for all the bodies. I will never be buried. My daughter will never be buried. After Sean, we’ll have to start burning.

 **Daniel:** Buddy, you are beginning to disturb my calm, and lemme tell ya, I have seen some shit.

 **Callum:** Right. Your job. What’s the point of the UN anymore? You wanna be a UN Observer? Fine, you fancy fucker, why don’t you observe the fuck out of Sean’s funeral? Don’t know if you’ve heard of him, good friend of mine, wouldn’t have a roof over my head if it wasn’t for him and a young American fuckboy, what was his name!

 **Daniel:** Hey!

 **Callum:** Oh right, Michael Dickhead York.

 **Daniel:** Look, if what you’re saying is true—

 **Callum:** I am absolutely not kidding, Michael.

 **Daniel:** Then you need to run. Don’t bother going to the fune—no, _listen to me!_ —There isn’t any time! He won’t stop! Take Shannon and Lee and just fucking _run_ , okay? _Please, Mr. Molloy! It might already be too late!_

 **Callum:** [ _grunt of effort_ ]

 **Daniel:** No punching!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted at http://theamazingdrunk.tumblr.com/post/156828998844/scratched-recordings-from-daniel-molloys


	5. Lost Photographs from Daniel’s Missing Luggage: Seaglen (formerly Galveston, FL)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daniel Molloy, undercover as a merchant named Charlie Langford, arrives at Seaglen (formerly Galveston, FL).

 

 

It’s damp tonight. The Gulf of Mexico has almost swallowed this place up, but life clings on in the sea forts built on the rubble of what used to be Galveston. After the Theocratic Kingdom of Perry dissolved into chaos and ruin and the refugees clawed off their chastity belts, it became clear that neither side wanted what was left of the former cult’s proud state. A couple enterprising folks built private little fiefdoms of their own on giant stilts. 

They look a little like frozen AT-ATs, but in the salt of the ocean, I can see how the rust has already gotten to them. Civilian salvage architecture. Damp evening means the waters are a little rough, so that should give me more cover. It’s not like I’m in danger of drowning, but I do want the food aid to reach these folks. The clouds weep rain nonstop and I don’t want to be out here in this chill longer than necessary. 

The little lantern I’ve brought pitches its LED in the correct sequence. My rowboat’s tethered to one of the pillars holding up this top-heavy fortress on stilts. Everything’s grey and rusted and sounds like it, from the way a viewing hatch opens. It’s heavily fortified with enormous rivets, and there are bars on the windows. I wave, trying to keep a steady footing as the boat bobs up and down. I flip the lantern onto the crates of food and vegetables, but I make sure to keep my most valuable cargo—non-irradiated soil and maize—close and hidden.

I’m pretty sure my false beard isn’t going to fall off, but it’s starting to itch and I’m praying that spirit gum is waterproof. Everything on my boat says I’m a trader, a travelling merchant, and I’ve even got contacts on. A light peeks out and shines on my face. I close my eyes against the blinding brightness. They’re trying to decide whether to shoot me or not. This is always the hardest part, waiting, counting the seconds, wondering if you should jump. 

There’s a squeal of metal, and a familiar clattering sound as the crane unwinds the thick, steel links. My calves unwind too, and my shoulders loosen. The sea gets a little bit less nauseating. I haul my cargo onto the platform, then scramble onto it with my rucksack. The boat will be secure where it’s moored, even if this storm picks up, and I won’t be staying long. Just to get some news, drop off letters.

The platform starts to rise, and I instantly feel better than I did above a roiling ocean. The storms have gotten worse since the Ohio River Valley went dark. We still don’t know what happened, but I doubt anyone would tell me anyway. I used to know a lot more, but, well, I know less and less nowadays, and I hope that’s not intentional.

The people who greet me on the corrugated metal platforms look scared. Their weapons are well-oiled, which tells me they drill and take their safety very seriously, but they’re all handguns, which tells me they’re probably legacy open-carry humans. Literally grandfathered in. 

“Welcome to Seaglen. I’m Mayor Calletín. Who are you, stranger?”

“Charlie Langford. I’m a traveler, sometimes a merchant. I carry mail, too, if’n you need it sent my way.” I have the twang down nowadays, and it always gets the ladies smiling.

“Charlie!” 

There’s a little Indian girl who rushes into my arms, and it takes me a second before I realize who I’m holding. It’s been a couple years now since I met her at the mercy transports out of Secaucus Junction. She’d been mute the whole week she followed me around as we looked for her parents. When we finally took her off the orphanage car, she thanked me out loud before she toddled to her mom. But now she looks like a teenager, all dark brown and lanky, still growing into her bones.

“Lakshmi, sweetheart! Oh it’s so good to see you, what are you doing here?”

“Charlie, oh my gawd,” she says, her Jersey accent still strong, and she’s suddenly talking a mile a minute. I can’t help but grin. “I can’t believe it! Ugh, are you sick? You’re all clammy and cold, are you telling me you didn’t even pack a jacket? What are you doing in Seaglen? Mayor Calletín, I can vouch for this guy. He’s no leech. We go way back. He helped me find my parents. He saved me from getting rendered at the soap factory.”

“Miss Agarwal, You are a minor and cannot vouch for an adult, so please back away from Mr. Langford so we may inspect his goods. Sir, if you would?”

“Hey, we’ll talk later, okay? I _promise_. But I gotta make a living now,” I tell her with a smile, and she returns it with a dazzling grin and a squeeze of my hand. I turn back to the assembled audience. It’s pretty rainy, but most of the roof over the public square is watertight. There’s a cute little hole that creates a fountain, and probably the only source of natural light in the place. And surprisingly, there’s a lot of hydroponics. I didn’t think the plants would tolerate the salty air, but I see a couple greens.

“Please show us the contents of your case.”

I pull out my little case and fold open the small table. Upon it, I place a can of propane, a tiny foldable camping stove, and a small vial of fresh water. A hush filters over the crowd. The cost of propane is simply too high, and the prospect of my wastefulness transfixes them.

“Now wait a minute, young man!”

But the mayor no longer has the audience in his grasp. The guards have all lowered their weapons in their enchantment. I feint temporary deafness, and smile down at the side drawer. I pretend I do not notice their gazes, that I am a humble travelling merchant performing something of a personal matter. It must get really boring on this sea fort.

Someone makes a sound of longing when I shake out the loose leaves of tea. International trade stopped long ago and tea shipments aren’t exactly high on the list of essential goods. We aren’t the British. The aroma and the warmth that emanates from my little boiler enchants the crowd. I smile, pretending to finally notice them, pretending innocence that anyone would be interested in my charming little habits.

“Say, what are you selling? What’s in the crates?”

“Fruits, vegetables. I’m also trying to get rid of some junk I happened to come across this capsule and thought was useful, but I can’t tell why it’s special. I don’t know what to do with it and I’ve no use for it, being a traveller myself. I picked it up because of the federal seal on the capsule, but when I opened it, it was just a bunch of dirt inside. Weird, right?”

That puts the crowd into an uproar, and the mayor is suddenly shouting over everyone else. Half the crowd wants to take advantage of the idiot who is going to give away uncontaminated pre-War soil. The other half wants to see what _else_  I have. I can see why Armand hates people so much, but it’s hard to use that as a reason to wipe away all the good, too.

My timer dings, putting the crowd to silence again. The tea _does_  smell good, and my hands feel pretty cold. I haven’t fed in a while. Lately, no one’s looked healthy enough to take a sip from. That’s when I get—I get interrupted. Hot water’s spilling all over my hand, which is shaking so badly I can’t even see it. I can’t. It’s scalding, and someone leaps forward to grab the cup and I’m suddenly rushing backwards, back in the mud and the dirt and the rubble, fighting for someone else’s life. The jagged fear is shoving me down, burying me alive, and my arms and hands tremble with the effort of keeping it at bay. It’s going to get me. My mouth fills with dirt. The drumming of the rain is dull against the tarpaulin-covers, and my ears are suddenly muffled. It’s going to get me and I can’t hear. I recognize what that means, and I brace myself before a soldier finds my hiding spot. I don’t want to hurt anyone by accident.

I can’t breathe. The very air itself is heavy and I can’t get up. I’m going to kill someone by accident and it’s—“ _Attention, Soldier_!” 

I break out of it.

Two people are holding me down and it hits me that I really haven’t fed in a very long while. They are able to hold me down while I thrash against the cold corrugated steel, right next to my pallet of goods. The two mortals are watching me anxiously, but there is sympathy in their eyes and their grip doesn’t hurt.

“You’re safe. You’re at Seaglen Sea Fortress, in the Confederated States of Arklatex. Your name is Charlie Langford.” His voice is calm. It’s Mayor Calletín. He’s seen this before. His solemn expression but warm grasp on my shoulder is all I know for a moment, and it feels like a breath of fresh air that strokes my emotions raw.

“Thank you,” I tell him in a normal voice, and they let me sit up. 

“Nothing a bit of headshrinking won’t fix,” Calletín says brightly, as Lakshmi rushes to the second floor balcony. Her body hits the bannister just as the klaxons sound, and anything she might have yelled in warning is drowned out by the hideous wailing.

“Defense stations! Aerial assault!” People are battening down hatches, readying for the worst. Why are we attacking these people? They’re doing nothing. They’re barely even surviving. The Gulf is almost fished out.

But it’s raining. How can you have a drone if it’s raining? Someone pulls me to the side, but Lakshmi is still on the balcony in an uncharacteristic panic. Something new has happened since the last time we were in an attack together. She has learned what more there is to fear. 

“Lakshmi!” I scream, reaching out for her. “Get to safety, come down, I’ll catch you!” It’s not far. I’d catch her perfectly, safely.

“I-I can’t! I’m too scared!”

“That’s-that’s okay honey, that’s okay, I’ll come up and get you, okay? You’re gonna be—”

I don’t really know where it comes from. It’s the sharp whistle through the air that alerts me sooner than anyone else. Vampire hearing, you know? There’s nothing I can do but try to breathe my way through the sudden explosion of pain in my left leg. Angry shocks are going up my muscles and I glance down through the blood sweat on my face and realize what has happened to my leg.

The steel bar going through it pins me down like a mounted beetle. I never even took off my rucksack. It’s a weird thing to think about, worrying about stuff like that at a time like this, but I’m too stunned to do anything else. My tongue is thick in my mouth. The world is shuddering and I’m faintly aware that there’s a steel bar going through my leg because there was an explosion that just tore open the entire operations quarter behind her.

The sound rushes back all at once, and Lakshmi’s flying away from me, or the other way around, I’m not sure, and I can’t hear anything. She looks suddenly more horrified and we’re both reaching out for each other. That’s when she starts to scream, before the fire gets to her. 

I’m helpless, trapped under the debris, when I hear it. The constant groaning of the sea fortress has given way to an ancient doom. I plunge backwards into the oil floating on the water. The last sight I have of Lakshmi is her burning, blackening body still writhing against the pylons. My piece of the fort collapses, the entire structure juddering against the impact of the water. I can’t get her scream out of my head. It’s all I hear as the two halves of the slipshod fortress slowly disintegrate into fire and ash and oil.

My piece, the part that is pinning me to the floor of what was once the town square, that piece, is slowly bubbling downwards into the abyss. I don’t have to breathe. I don’t really want to. I keep thinking of the horror on Lakshmi’s face. I go still and drift.

I let the water take me for a while. I don’t want to leave. I worry whether her body has hit the water already. All that ocean salt won’t be good for her. I lie back and watch the destruction slowly sink down towards me, like ships in the inky void of the night ocean. Humans hunted down the last whales to extinction years ago. It just seems like so much work. Pretty soon, though, it’ll be light, and I’ll be helpless on the ocean floor as the world’s largest shish-kabob.

I free myself and don’t bother looking for survivors. By chance, I find my rucksack snagged on a crumpled beam. It’s excruciating slow going, walking like this on the ocean floor, but all my stuff is waterproof. Even my pencil and this piece of paper. (I took a break.)

Let’s hope I make it to shore by dawn. There’s little else I’m prepared to hope for.

 

dm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> http://theamazingdrunk.tumblr.com/post/155888507259/lost-photographs-from-daniels-missing-luggage-a


	6. Lost Photographs from Daniel's Missing Luggage: Location Unknown

[](http://danger.tumblr.com/)  


> (Image Source: [Flickr / catherinephotography](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.flickr.com%2Fphotos%2Fcatherinephotography%2F&t=ZTU4NWYzMjcwYWU0NDFhYzBiNjQ0OWM5MzA2NTMyMjIzN2JlNTExNSwxNTU0NzQ4NTE1Nzk%3D&b=t%3Alt8cWpnJF8v6Go8F5fmedQ&p=http%3A%2F%2Ftheamazingdrunk.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F155474851579%2Fdanger-untitled-by-catherine-bui-lost&m=1), via [timbllr](http://timbllr.nl/post/153850019477/danger-untitled-by-catherine-bui))

I’m sitting at the gate, waiting for my flight to be called. Everything is a mess at the airport today. I don’t know why none of the flights were canceled. I ask the lady sitting behind me how long she’s been here and she ignores me. Fine. It’s eerily quiet. Lights are off. Power’s out. But something else about this feels dead. I’m almost scared of finding out what.

“Aaah! Aaah!”

It’s a little girl. She’s in some kind of dirty shift gown and I don’t see her parents. Nobody’s even paying her any attention, and when she sees me, she starts screaming even louder. Aw jeez.

“Sh, sh,” I’m trying to say, but my lips have forgotten how. I don’t know what’s wrong with me today. Probably just jet lag or something. I give her the old jazz hands, and I see what’s wrong now. I guess her parents lost track of her and she started playing in the indoor garden. And she tripped. It is ten o’clock. Do you know where your children are? Not _her_ parents. 

“Hey, sweetheart, what’s your name? Where do you think your parents might be?” I’ve gotta lay off the cigarettes. I sound awful.

“ _’taywa_!” She looks a little old to still be baby talking, and it’s not a language I recognize. I give her a big smile, all teeth, and that gets her to stop crying. She stares at me with big brown eyes and I puff up my cheeks and play peek-a-boo with my hands. 

I point at her leg once she’s quieted down. 

“What happened, sweetie? Can I help you with that?”

She nods, miming effort and strain against the tree keeping her hostage. They’re really letting this airport go to the dumps. They must have gutted the interior gardening budget, because the girl’s foot is caught in a tangle of roots and vines that’s just asking for a lawsuit.

I put my finger over my lips to hush the kid and, when no one’s watching—the woman at the counter has a dead-eyed stare and I decide she’s just zoned out—, I crumble the roots around her foot with ease. She gasps, delighted, and hugs me around the neck, leaning on me with her good leg.

“ _Ta! Ta!_ ” she says, and I have no idea where she’s from or how to get her safely back to her parents.

“Okay, let’s—” and she, she does something that makes me flinch, really, just a whole-body cringe of dread. I’m not supposed to need to breathe. It’s, I can’t—

She points to me, a tiny burning finger pressing at my clavicle. She points to herself, says something that sounds like ‘Neema,’ and points to me again. I don’t know what to say. Nobody has asked me that in a long time— _ngh please_ —and I no longer remember what I am called.

The kid runs around me now, injury forgotten, and before I can even react, she’s got my wallet and she’s thumbing through it with big round eyes, trying to sound out each word. 

Why do I have a wallet? Why would they—who was—

An explosion rocks the tarmac outside. The little girl screams in genuine horror and suddenly I’m back, the airport’s covered in dense overgrowth and _she is running off with my wallet_. I have all my, my cards in there, I can’t go after—another explosion sets me hurtling backwards, and the wallet smacks me in the face in a convenient enough fashion that a fissure begins to open up beneath the wide concourse tiles. Something painful rips through me— _Get the codes in the wallet. Find out who you are.—_ but the wallet’s blank. Every single card. Driver’s license. Things that might be credit cards, might be entry cards. It’s a pile of nothing.

The ground starts boiling through my feet, and just as I realize that delicious smell is my feet _cooking_ , the yank comes from behind my stomach and I’m pulled out of the fog.

I lose what little blood I have left to vomit. It stuffs up the intubated tubes they’ve stuck into me. Whatever I am. I can’t remember. I can’t even remember that. The drugs keep me down and every time their psychic makes me have the nightmare, I stay down a little longer. They can make you peel away your mind for them to see, but I’m supposed to protect something. I don’t remember what, anymore. 

They start zapping me. Curly and Moe, they do it for fun sometimes, when they think Larry isn’t watching. (He’s always watching.) I don’t know what they want. I don’t understand their questions anymore. Which is good, I guess. I can’t, I can’t give up what I don’t know, right? 

_Please, stop, no more—_

_“_ How about a flight announcement on a public screen? They had those before the war.”

_Stop, please, please—_

“Oh, good idea, there, done—” _NO!_

* * *

I’m sitting at the gate, waiting for my flight to be called. Everything is a mess at the airport today. There are so many emergency messages for passengers that even the entertainment televisions are being co-opted for announcements. I don’t know why none of my flights were canceled…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted at http://theamazingdrunk.tumblr.com/post/155474851579/danger-untitled-by-catherine-bui-lost.


	7. Scratched Recordings from Daniel Molloy’s Audiotapes: Zagreb Relocation Camp

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Transcript. United Nations Security Council Observer Michael York. Zagreb Relocation Camp.

 (Image Source: [coldfeel](http://coldfeel.tumblr.com/post/143232292604))

 **Daniel:** “This is United Nations Security Council Observer Michael York, conducting Interview No. 9923. Please state your name and pre-war nationality for the record.”

 **Interviewee:** “Robert Cordele. European Union. New France.”

 **Daniel:** “Thank you M’sieur—may I call you M’sieur? Or…?”

 **Interviewee:** “Yes. But please, Robert is OK.”

 **Daniel:** “And your date of birth, Robert, and current residence?”

 **Interviewee:** “The 12th of March, 2075. Zagreb Relocation Camp.”

 **Daniel:** “Please confirm that you volunteered to give this statement for the Council.”

 **Interviewee:** “Yes, yes, someone must know about what happened! I told the intake people when I arrived. You must get this out to everyone, not just the Security Council! This is no longer a Resistance; this is a _Retreat_!”

 **Daniel:** “It’s okay, you’re safe here. Robert, look at me, stay with me, buddy. Hey Essa, can you get us some teas or something warm? Yeah. Thanks. That’s right, Robert. You’re safe here with me. I’m here to help. You wanted to tell me something? Why don’t you rest for a second in this chair and when you’re ready, start from the very beginning? Yeah? We cool? OK.”

 **Interviewee:** “I wanted to go for Budapest. I heard they are still taking in people at Budapest, yes?”

 **Daniel:** “I…don’t know. I just came from Bratislava Camp and no one was going to Budapest. Everyone is going north.”

 **Interviewee:** “But, I have a friend in Budapest! Please, you must get me a pass, please—”

 **Daniel:** “A pass? To retreat, right? [ _pause_ ] Why did you call it a retreat? The war is far from over.”

 **Interviewee:** “Our enemy does not breathe. It does not matter if he cannot go into the sunlight. Why does he need to, when he can pipe—[ _choking sound_ ] pipe _poison_  through the streets where our children play?”

 **Daniel:** “[ _stunned whisper_ ] What did you say?”

 **Interviewee:** “We were in Graz. I had just gotten out of Frankfurt and we thought we’d be safe in Graz, the children. I work in livery and a school had hired us.”

 **Daniel:** “Have you been chaperoning the same school group since the _war_ _began_?”

 **Interviewee:** “We could not go back to France! Not with Le Russe occupying Paris. We fled as far east as we could, and we found an old schoolhouse outside of Frankfurt. I went into the city, sometimes, to get supplies, but we kept quiet and the children helped with the crops.”

 **Daniel:** “When was this? Frankfurt hasn’t been Warm since—”

 **Interviewee:** “Since 2092, yes, I know. In ‘91, a hunting party from the city nearly took our youngest. So we took all the petrol we’d saved and drove south. [ _sound of head placed in hands and a soft sob_ ] God help us, we thought Graz would be safe! No one told us they had already taken Vienna. No one told us they had already taken Salzburg. Graz is a little hamlet, it is a small, old city!”

 **Daniel:** “[ _sound of cloth, chair legs shifting across the floor]_  Hey, hey, it’s okay, you don’t have to grab me. I’m listening. [ _Daniel’s voice is calm, placating, gentle._ ]”

 **Interviewee:** “[ _scream-sobbing_ ] You don’t understand! We only had _adult-size_  gas masks! They don’t work on the kids’ tiny faces! [ _shrieking_ ] Do you hear me? _Adult-size!”_

 **Daniel:** “[ _door bursts open_ ] No! It’s okay! Robert is telling me something important, right, Robert?”

 **Guard:** “Mr. York, if an interviewee places his hands on you, I need to stay as an observer.”

 **Daniel:** “Okay. Thank you. We’ve got a watchman, Robert. Who watches the Watchmen, right? You with me?”

 **Interviewee:** “[ _low, shaking voice_ ] Everyone in Graz is _dead_. You want to see the liquefaction of someone’s guts in the middle of the street, pay a visit. Bring back the keys I dropped in what was left of Stefanie Martin’s melted skeleton! I raised those children since they were _seven_ , Mr. York! [ _sound of metal screeching and furniture skidding_ ] And they’re all dead! It was _gas_ , I tell you! The leeches don’t need to breathe so they’re using _gas!”_

 **Daniel _:_** _“_ Don’t hurt him! He’s got every reason to—”

 **Interviewee:** “Leeches walking through the death in the air, Mr. York, taking _notes!—_ Let _go_ of me—Notes! Like we were an experiment. Graz will happen again! We must warn people!”

 **Guard:** “[ _sounds of scuffle; speaker sounds out of breath_ ] You’re an Observer, Mr. York. It’s not your fault. Sedate him. [ _door slams_ ]”

 **Daniel:** “How did we let this happen? How did it get this bad?”

 **Guard:** “They’re _inhuman_. It was always going to be this bad. Why are you surprised?”

 **Daniel:** “This isn’t my first rodeo. I saw the photographs out of Graz. But hearing him talk about it…this can’t go on. I need to talk to him.”

 **Guard:** “Who, that Graz survivor?”

 **Daniel:** “No, my…[ _sighs_ ] my boss.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted at http://theamazingdrunk.tumblr.com/post/154733662019/scratched-recordings-from-daniel-molloys.


	8. Scratched Recordings from the Audiotapes of Daniel Molloy: Gilroy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Transcript. Daniel Molloy. Scout for the Imperial Army.

“Something happened today that I gotta talk to someone about. I don’t know, it just…it messed with me, man. Voice recorder. Is it bad that I’ve started thinking of you as Tommy? Don’t…answer that. Not that you can.

“Okay, so, I’m a couple hours out of Gilroy. and it doesn’t smell like garlic and fried artichokes anymore. It just smells…human. Smells like blood. [ _sigh_ ] I was in the night market alleyway giving away fruits and vegetables. When we ran out of water, we trucked it in, and when we ran out of fuel, a lot of desperate people started getting publicly executed for drinking blood. MicroBook didn’t even bother censoring it, so now we know what the old Gates-Zuckerberg family thinks about _that_. See if I ever go to another one of their vegan BBQs ever again. I was kind of hoping they’d be living on a moon base on the moon right now.

“But I digress, as better men than I have done. There I am. Full bug-out gear, shaved head, green contacts, funny hat so that’s what they’d remember. The usual. I notice this young person who seems about as lost as I feel. Armand and I aren’t talking again. It’s different this time. Sometimes I’ll be sitting with him in the library and he’ll be doing his Pinky and the Brain thing, I’m Pinky, no surprise but thanks for the vote of confidence, bro. And he’ll get this look on his face and I know he’s watching something different because I can still see the colors reflecting across his face from the computer screen. His face always looks so small between his headphones. It’s stupid cute. [ _sigh_ ] Fuck. I miss him. Hold on. [ _jostling sound, cigarette lighter, breath, breath, breath_ ] These are getting rarer too, cigs. No more smoke-burned voices in blues lounges across America, rasping their way into your heart. 

“Hard to kick a habit. Even when you know it’s bad for you. [ _beat_ ] I’m good at clean breaks. Except him. He was the death of me. Nick would say something dramatic like  _‘ohh, Daneeele, don’t you know when Ahrrrmand was borrhhn, someone shat in ‘is ‘eart and zat ees why ‘e—’_ and then he’d just start laughing and then I’d have to come back in an hour with a mop. Poor guy. I don’t even have the heart to tell him his fake French accent’s worse than his real one. Last time I visited his room, I spent hours trying to get him to spit out the plastic grape from the fake fruit basket I brought. It’s kinda nice he’s able to start trusting Armand again.

“Yeah, so, about that, Armand and I aren’t talking because sometimes I don’t even recognize him anymore, shit that comes out of his perfect fucking mouth. I don’t even mind the weirdos who say we should build fucking Rococo fountains made of human bones or shit like that. Nobody takes them seriously. It’s when Armand says things like, ‘ _the humans shall be permitted to retrieve their personal belongings from their houses before the fire department commences their work_ ’ and not have it sound like ‘we’re kickin’ alla y’all out of your fucking homes and the fire truck’s gonna start sprayin’ napalm on your houses, so if you don’t make it to the train that can’t fit all your luggage anyway because you blew up most of your rail lines because you thought old timey vampires were gonna prefer fuckin’ Thomas the Tank Engine, we won’t be too fucked up about it if you burn.’ So. [loud breath] Yeah.

“This lady, the, she was passing by and I did my usual ‘hey kid want some fruits and veggies for free no drugs no blood’ thing. She just started crying. Haven’t been to Gilroy in years so I didn’t know how bad it was here. Of course, I give her one and she hugs it to herself and bites into it, and she has to sit down on the ground. She looks up at me, this beautiful smile even through the tears, and she calls me her ‘favorite _human_ ’. This little girl comes running up, kinda looks like the woman. ‘My daughter, my daughter, you want her,’ she says, which I just, I don’t even wanna think about what that means. _Fuck_. [deep breath] The kid is young enough to have been born after the war began and the water ran out. Doesn’t know what strawberries are, right?

“[ _gasp as if of pain_ ] A-and I think she’s going-goin’ta ask what it is, but she’s not even curious. She, she doesn’t hug her or anything. She pushes forwards and starts _licking her mom’s tears off her face_. Her lips were so dry there were _scabs_. And Mom, she doesn’t give the girl one bite. She doesn’t blink. She eats the entire strawberry and even chews on the green part.

“[inhale of cigarette, beat of three, exhale] 

“So…now I kinda have a kid. [ _sigh_ ] _Shit._

“She’s sleeping in the motel room I found. Ate all the fuckin’ strawberries, too.

“[ _sound of cigarette being stubbed out on a metal roof, calm breaths as if after weeping softly under the desert stars, alone and small in the night_ ]

“[ _quiet_ ] This far out of Gilroy, probably nobody is looking for us. The motel manager seems decent. They even have water. There’s almost no chance of a kiddie kegger.  _Christ_ , Tommy, she wants me to _name_  her! What the _fuck_ is going _on_? _Jesus!_

 _“_ [ _loud sigh_ ] Argh, I need to make a phone call. And then I need to find a place to hide this so no one pops the trunk on a routine DayPark trunk inspection.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted at http://theamazingdrunk.tumblr.com/post/150520604809/detectivegordon-i-have-a-propensity-to-profane.


	9. Scratched Recordings from Daniel Molloy's Audiotapes: Gilroy, CA

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Transcript. Daniel Molloy. Scout for the Imperial Army.

[](http://theamazingdrunk.tumblr.com/image/150653786199) (Unknown Photographer, Little Girl Dancing, Woodstock, 1969.)

“Daniel Molloy here–[ _sigh, inhale and exhale of a cigarette_ ] and it is Night Number Who-Knows-What of this fucking— _oh I’m sorry, sweetheart, no, I won’t do it anymore, I promise_ —of this war. Yeah, so the kid. I named her Aisling. She wouldn’t tell me her original name but I guess she didn’t like her ma too much.

“Likes me, though. Uncle Daniel takes her to places where she can dance with other humans and laugh and be happy. [ _wistful_ ] Just be a normal kid. _I can see you, Aisling honey, don’t worry!_  Yeah, she’s pretty cool. She’s trying to get me to swear less. Says it’s not a ‘good influence’ on her. Can you believe it?

“[ _pause_ ] I miss you, bro. I’m not gonna pretend anymore. I’ve been talking to this tape recorder like it’s my brother Tommy. My _dead_  brother Tommy. What am I even doin’ with this kid, man? She’s gonna figure out [I killed her mom](https://tmblr.co/Z9XZPh2CBkYY9), and then I’m finished as far as this patrol route’s concerned.

“ _Yup, playground’s still safe, honey!_ Armand’ll wanna see me. Use yet another phony patrol route to keep me where he can see me. Out of harm’s way, like, like another piece in his chess set. Same old thing, y’know? [ _heavy sigh_ ]

“I know, I know. At this point, I’m just stalling. I’ve gotta get her somewhere safe. I’ll visit, make sure she’s doing okay. Her own guardian vampire. [ _growing excitement_ ] Yeah, yeah, that’s exactly what I’ll be! That’s perfect!

“Hey, what’s that soun—[ _high-pitched ringing sound; recording device clatters against a hard surface; voice is faint_ ] But that’s _human_ ordnance—AISLING! COME BA—[ _explosive sound of shrapnel and dampened cries_ ] AISLI—[ _sporadic gunfire; more voices screaming as the explosions continue_ ]”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted at http://theamazingdrunk.tumblr.com/post/150653786199/flashofgod-unknown-photographer-little-girl.


	10. Scratched Recordings from Daniel Molloy's Audiotapes: Lethbridge, Alberta, Canada

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Transcript. Daniel Molloy. Scout for the Imperial Army.

[ ](http://theamazingdrunk.tumblr.com/image/150550721839)

“Fuck. I don’t even know what to say. I was… [ _shuddering breath_ ] It was 5:00 and I was racing the sun just north of Albuquerque, trying to find a place to hide the car so no one would pop the trunk and fry me. Always a danger now. Even more so.

“How can the Old Ones think this’ll blow over? After what they did, I don’t think things are gonna be better ever again. How do you come back from this? When I heard it on the car radio I couldn’t believe it. It seemed so incredible that the moment it happened, I thought we’d read too much into it or something.

“News made it pretty clear. Somebody smuggled designer ambient viruses only legal on the Black Rock City Cruise Ship, _The Eternal Burning Man_ , and set them loose in the middle of Times Square. _Our_ city. Welcome to the Big Apple. Take a bite.

“That was October 11. I’ve been traveling since, on barefoot. I left the car behind when I crossed the border. They were doing blood checks. Montana and Wyoming are completely closed. This Sri Lankan woman, Meg, who walked with me let me carry her kid for a while. Arya. Game a’Thrones fan. She told me someone had seen what the metavirus was doing in Kolkata and rained pity on it in the form of nuclear warheads. I’m still trying to believe that the Ganges is now thick with radioactive bodies.

“She and I hitchhiked with this trucker who had thrown out all his cargo and was giving people a lift. We swapped stories. Nobody knows who’s responsible, and for once, folks are giving humans just as much credit as vampires for acting inhuman. I’ve seen enough disaster movies to know that nobody wins in the end.

“[ _long pause_ ] There was this other…He told me his name was Chris. Who the hell turns somebody when they’re already ninety? He looked awful, and he kept staring at me while Meg talked about her husband. Her husband was dead and he’d looked so peaceful after she’d knocked him in the head ‘cause he was trying to eat the baby, and she couldn’t believe it wouldn’t wear off, that he had it forever.

“And then she noticed and by the time I noticed she’d stopped talking, kinda dozing off at that point I was so [ _shuddering breath_ ] so tired, she was already on her feet banging the driver-side of the truck. Gets everybody out without explaining why. Arya’s crying in my arms. Don’t fuck with a mom, right? We get out. I stick close. Then she points to Chris. She–she calls him a _leech_. [ _long pause_ ] Augh, Jesus, it makes perfect fucking sense, doesn’t it? A leech? That’s what we are. He goes for her. The both of us, we could’ve taken them all. It couldn’t have been more than 12 people.

“[ _sound of ruffling hair_ ] Arrgh. I don’t know, I gave her the baby and I punched ‘em, really giving it to ‘im. He goes flying back, way too far for a normal human punch, and and…I dunno, I’m just sitting here, in the woods somewhere, with a big pile of bodies and a giant campfire made out of _logs_.

“Just, you know, all alo-ne.

“So, thanks, Chris. Rest in fucking peace.”

_(Image Source[Shot By Canipel](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.facebook.com%2FShotByCanipel&t=NWU3NTQ1OTI0ZGE2YTQxNGJkYzY1NjFlNDAzM2ViN2VkM2EwYWE1YixLOEF6VGZxaA%3D%3D) & [Instagram](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Finstagram.com%2Fcanipel%2F&t=MmVlOTNhZjQ3OTZjM2M0MWVhYmNhNWQ3OWZkNTYyMDM0NWI2NDI5ZCxLOEF6VGZxaA%3D%3D))_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted at http://theamazingdrunk.tumblr.com/post/150550721839/canipel-pictures-by-shot-by-canipel.


	11. Daniel: Unknown Location

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Transcript. Daniel Molloy. Complaining. Scout for the Imperial Army.

“If it’s the end of the world, I don’t want to be here, alone, on a stakeout Armand _invented_  to keep me out of trouble. I know he invented it because he thinks I don’t read the reports, but I do. [ _sigh_ ] Fuck if I know what I’m doing. Some poor bastards are in there getting drunk and instead of joining them I’m going to end up telling the boss what they talked about and why I didn’t kill them. [ _pause_ ] Ive been doing that. Been makin’ excuses a lot these days. Oh, excuse me, ‘Nights’. I dunno, I really don’t, how did this even happen? I don’t know what to say to him. _Goddamn._  Sometimes I think there’s nothing good in the world except what we can do for each other. You can do more good here, Dan. Dan the Man. Dan the Scout. The Non-Combatant. Heh. Non-Com _Dan_ tant.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted at http://theamazingdrunk.tumblr.com/post/150521246014/grahamabbottillustration-i-love-welcome-to.


End file.
